Timour's Tale
by WhiteDragonWarrior
Summary: Just how lucky is a horseshoe against the Devil? The Painted Doll seeks an answer from the man who inspired the story. (A semi-sequel to Lucifer's Descent.)


**Author's Note:**

I wrote part of this two years ago as a Part Four of Lucifer's Descent. Finally decided to avoid the whole war, and changed wrote a beginning and ending to match it properly.

* * *

In the chaos and clutter rightfully named Hell, the Smith stood alone from the masses. Hammer in hand, he struck his newest project over and over until it fit it's proper form. He removed the metal from the anvil, giving it relief in precious water that was scoured for this singular purpose. Lucifer tasked the man to build tent foundations. Homes for the newly homeless of God's forgotten flock. It was a necessary job. It was a thankless one as well, but he was used to that.

So focused was he on the task, he didn't notice a sudden company until a shadow loomed over the pitcher. He looked up from his project. The visitor was a woman, faintly familiar to him. Messy blond hair in waves, one brown eye while the other was a startling blue, and one cheek horribly cracked like an old doll -_ ah- _it's the new girl. That's why she looks familiar.

"Wha'd'you want?" He asked gruffly. He didn't mean to come off as rude, but he's in the middle of something important.

To his confusion, the woman said nothing. She didn't even bother to meet his eye. Instead, her gaze was downward and fixed in a sneer. He followed her eyes, seeing that they were focused on the horseshoe tied to his belt. "Lemme guess. Come to see if it's true, right?"

The woman finally met his eyes. Her own eyes held questions, yet seemed to compel him to speak. He shuddered at her gaze, trying to not be weirded out by the girl's transformed state. Geez, he ought to be used to transformations by now. That thought reminded him, again, of her newness to this place.

"Wait, do you know the story, or just Heaven's version?"

Her eyes flicked upward in answer.

The Smith huffed once. "Of course." He pulled the metal pole out of the pitcher and brought it back to the forge. Once it was thrust into the fire, he made a half turn behind him. The woman was watching him, still. Her elbows rested on his anvil, and her head propped up on her hands. A casual, almost playful stance.

"Look, lady, if you want a story just ask the big guy. He's full of them."

Her expression was annoyingly bored. In lagging motions she pushed away from the anvil. Slow, swaying steps made in his direction. He tried to ignore her, but the new girl stepped between him and the forge. She tugged at the horseshoe on his belt, bringing him closer. Her eyes seemed to speak to him, daring him to deny the request ...that she won't take no for an answer.

A strong thought passed by his mind. It was a voice that said "it'll be faster to just get it over with than arguing with a mute." He was too tired to even argue the logic that he's not really arguing with a mute. How would that even work?

"It's not a nice story. Not exactly my proudest moment."

Something smoldered in the woman's eyes. Her face warmed, but not in a kind sense. No, it was a face of satisfaction. He's lost the battle. ...No surprises there. The Smith took a deep breath and sighed. He pulled out the pole, allowing it to rest in the water, then walked over to a bench. He let himself drop on the uncomfortable wood. The woman, weirdly, didn't join him. She simply looked at him from above, waiting for him to begin.

"It all started back in Heaven. It was a normal day. Nothing special. At least, that's what I thought at the time…"

* * *

_Another day, the same ol' anvil. _Timour thought sluggishly as he got himself ready for the day's work. His body ached and blistered from hours spent at the HPI smithy. Sadly, though, he knew it'd be pointless to complain. A job's a job, and everybody's got their place in Heaven. Complain and, well, you no longer have a place in Heaven. That, or find yourself under a translator's boot. Frankly, Timour didn't know which was worse. Not that he wanted to test a comparison with the former to find out. Between the two, it was better off that he keep his mouth shut and stick with doing his God-given work, so that's what he did.

He showed up early, again. Probably a stupid idea. Getting more sleep would've been the smart move. Fact is, he hated waking up to a radio in the morning. Call him old fashioned, but he preferred waking the natural way. An old memory seeped in of roosters and a sunrise. He smiled grimly at that. It was a rare treat. Sensations of a life from centuries past, faded almost to oblivion along with everything else aside from a name. It was nice to know some things stuck around after all this time.

"Timour!" And, just like that, the good feelings shattered. "Are you sleepwalking or what? Get working on those pipes for Level Three!"

"Yessir." He grumbled at the foreman, hefting his hammer as he moved on from his reminiscing.

Over the next half hour more early risers came in and got started on their projects. The smithy was ringing with the sound of hammers and sweltered from the heat of the forge. It all faded in the background for the Sevens who worked there each day. Just another aspect of their lives they were well used to.

Above them, almost loud enough to drown out the sound of metal, came the musical intro for HPI's radio network. Most of the smiths stopped their work. It was considered rude to interrupt a One's programming, so a lot of the guys got in the habit of doing smaller, less noisy jobs during those shows. It always seemed weirdly silly and pointless to Timour. Their lives are meant for the forge, yet they gotta stop work to listen to stories and songs? How did that make sense? Maybe it was _supposed _to be a break for them? A good intention that came off as self-righteous pandering? Timour could never figure it out. Didn't put much thought to it, really. It was one of those things that was done because it just _was _. You aren't supposed to question why things run the way they do. So, once again, he kept his comments to himself, put down his hammer, and began on some less noisy work.

"Good morning, my fellow blessed of the flock," Came the gentle baritone of The Morningstar, "and welcome to the Hour of the Morningstar. This morning we will begin our day with the story of _'The Foal in the Lion's Skin' _."

_Again? _Timour frowned at that. That story was a fairly new one. It seemed a weird choice to tell it again so soon. Maybe some other poor idiot didn't learn the lesson and they have to drive it in again? On the bright side, a familiar story meant Timour didn't have to pay much mind to it while he worked.

"Before we begin, I wish to make a confession to you all."

Like an old gear, the smithy ground to a halt. The Morningstar? Making a confession? Where in Heaven did that come from? Everyone else seemed just as confused as he was while The Morningstar continued.

"_The Foal in the Lion's Skin _is a tale that has brought me much heartache. Froder, the Foal in the tale, is a man I knew well during his time in Heaven. At the time, I struggled to understand his motivations, and was burdened with guilt over his punishment. Fortunately, the Author saw through my struggles and offered counsel on my guilt."

Something about that admission made Timour shudder. For the most part, The Morningstar was talking smooth like he usually does on his show. Like the whole thing was rehearsed while still delivered sincerely like a good little angel. That bit, though, it was almost like he wanted to laugh. Like a Six trying to play Good Cop before the switch to Bad Cop whacked you in the shin.

"He reminded me of my place in Heaven. Of our roles within the flock. That we are all, in the end, subject to Him and Him alone; and deviations from His designs are to be punished."

All around him, people were shifting uncomfortably. Ears glued to the speaker above. Unsure of where the Morningstar was going with all this.

"After this conversation with The Author, and much reflection, I have come to realize the error in my understanding of His ways, and a truth beyond the moral of this tale. That it is important to stay true to oneself, and understand one's station and standing in Heaven in order to prosper within it.

"Now that I have spoken _my _truth, we shall begin the tale."

Timour held still as The Morningstar went into the story. Something in that confession had shaken him up. There was something deeper going on, he could tell. The others in the forge seemed to sense it as well. Nobody moved as the story unravelled from the One's silver tongue. Unravel was the right way to put it. Right from the start, The Morningstar didn't seem to be telling the story of _'The Foal in the Lion's Skin' _; or, at least, he wasn't telling it _right _. It had the Foal and the other animals, but it was told from the perspective of a snake hiding in a tree. It listened as some of the other animals conspired to get rid of the Foal, because the Master thought that the Foal was ugly and imperfect. Despite its appearance the Foal was a happy and hardworking animal, so the Master couldn't get rid of the animal without the other animals becoming mistrustful of his vanity. So, the Master took a lion pelt from his home and instructed his guard dogs to give it to the Foal, telling it to scare aware some wolves preying on the sheep. But there were no wolves among the sheep. Not knowing this, the foal charged into the herd, terrifying the sheep with the lion's pelt. When the sheep learned it was the foal, they called on the guard dogs, who obediently brought him to the Master. The foal tried to explain to the Master why he had the pelt, but the Master claimed him a thief and a liar. The other animals believed the Master, for they were raised to always trust in the Master, and stood aside as the Foal was cast from the farm.

"And the _true _moral of this story, my fellow compatriots, is that our place in Heaven only exists so long as we can appease the vanity of our Master. Should you be misshapen, ugly, independent, or make any move that offends his aesthetic of the world, he will find a way to brand you unworthy and cast you out from Heaven.

"There are those of you that doubt this still, I am sure. I do not blame you for your ignorance, for I understand your love and devotion. So I ask you this: look around and think of what you see. Are the fellows of your cast more beautiful, more 'perfect' than the caste above you? Than the caste below? How many of you have been punished, beaten, for harmless actions? How many of your friends have been sent below for a crime that seems innocent to all but the one who calls himself your Master? How many of you spend each day living in fear of his wrath?"

Unconsciously, Timour had stopped working completely. Holding onto his hammer like a lifeline as he continued to listen to Lucifer's sermon. Memories of friends coming back from translators bruised and bloody because they were exhausted and needed a break, or because of an accident at work, even when the accident already left their bodies mangled. Days coming in to work and finding anvils left empty from men who were never seen again. Brief whispers and terrified voices. He always knew that was the case. They all did. At least, every Seven did. That said, there was always some small trust that it was all for a reason. God has a plan for all, right? The higher ups always seem to think so. Which begged the question that every man, woman, and child was thinking as they listened on: How worthy is their faith when even a One no longer trusts in God?

As The Morningstar continued to talk, the door to the smithy opened. A pair of rigid Sixes walked in, with hands gripping tight to their batons.

"My friends, we must accept the truth of Heaven. That even the most faithful of servants can be punished on a whim. That our roles have been designed only in servitude to one, at the expense of all others, including ourselves. That God has no care nor love for his flock. God has betrayed us.

"But it doesn't have to stay that way.

"My friends, it is time we restore Heaven to what it was meant to be. For us all to live in grace. To work together and prosper in a Heaven greater than God's ego. We must take the path of righteousness, come together, and TAKE GOD DOWn_zzzzzhhhsssshhhh! _"

The radio came to a sudden stop. It cracked and sizzled like a heated forge, the sermon cut off just as it reached its peak. For a moment, the forge was silent for all but the crackling flames.

"Alright!" One of the Sixes shouted to the crowd. "That's enough dilly dallying. Get back to work!"

Nobody moved.

"You metalheads heard her!" The other sneered. "Get off your lazy asses and get back to-" The man's words ended in a crunch, his jaw destroyed by the end of a hammer in the hands of another smith.

The other Six snarled, her baton raised high, aiming down at the rogue smith. At once she was slammed down by a second smith. Then two more came down on her. Beating her down like misshapen metal. Timour could only watch the massacre in horrified silence. Others joined in, while some went and gathered tools. Calls rang about. Calls to arms. Calls to rally to other levels with weapons in tow.

Calls for revolution.

* * *

"You can imagine what happened next." The Smith scoffed as the memories unfolded. "It was a damn massacre all over the place. Most of the Sevens joined the rebellion. Most of the Sixes and Ones fought for God, of course. The Fives, well, nobody saw it coming so either the Morningstar suddenly went crazy or they were already on his side. The Threes and Fours were mostly with God, too, but none of them can put up a fight. Though the Major, the guy with the big mustache, he managed to get a good number of fours to help us out. The Twos were probably the most split." He nodded in memory. "I mean, in fairness, those guys are the experts when it comes to stories. You'd think if anyone's going to know who's side is right, it's them. Them being so split, it should have given us a good warning as to how things were going to end up."

* * *

"If we're going to bring God to heel, we need to stop fighting in the halls and get straight to him." Lucifer concluded. Around him, many members of the rebellion shifted with uncertainty.

"His Ssupreme is out of reach." The sibilant voice of Maksim, a lead Five, countered. "The scoutss cannot catch him in his study."

"Because he isn't in his study." Lucifer replied simply. "He's hiding in his private chambers. Fives don't know the way there, but I do. We'll need to bypass the elevators to Level One. Once we get there, I can lead our forces to the hidden entrance."

"I can lead another group to distract the Ones." The Major volunteered.

"That'll come in handy, Kenanyah." Constantine, Lucifer's right hand man, replied. "Though it's one thing to get to a door and another one to open it. We'll need a key."

Lucifer smiled knowingly. "Not to worry. The Seven's can fashion a skeleton key or find another way to break us in."

* * *

"And guess which of us got the short end of _that _stick!" The Smith gruffed.

"So. There I was, sneaking up the ducts. Leading the charge beside Lucifer Morningstar himself and the other big wigs of the rebellion. We get into Level One, barge into God's study, and lucky ol' me gets to unlock the door. It wasn't all that hard, really. Even though I'm not a locksmith I still managed to get the thing open. Should have been a clue, really. We ran in, war cries thundering around, but then we realized…"

* * *

_It's a trap! _

A fucking battalion of Sixes were already inside. They got hit on both sides like a damn swarm. Timour dodged batons and whirled around the chaos of the room. Lucky for him, he was standing near Lucifer, and most of the Sixes were too scared to face him. In fact, the only person that seemed brave enough to face him was God himself.

In all of the centuries that Timour has worked in Heaven, he can count on one hand how many times he's seen God in person. He didn't… love God. Not in the way that Ones and Fours seemed to swoon about their Creator. Still, he did have respect for the man. He's the creator of all things, after all. In pictures and radio programs he always carried an air of gentle yet firm superiority. Though this was the first time he's ever seen God angry.

"I knew you'd come, you despicable little ingrate!" God spoke to Lucifer. "You think you're so clever, breaking into my holy quarters? Look around you, Lucifer. I've over. I have you where I want you. Where I_ planned _for you to be. You think the Lord of all creation can be defeated so easily?"

A bold Six ran at Lucifer, but the One tossed him aside almost casually. "Planned?" He scoffed. "We're done with your lies! If you knew about this you would have sent me down eons ago and stopped this from ever happening!"

"Heh. You fool." God muttered. "Arrest him! And the other traitors!"

A few more Sixes charged at them. Timour managed to knock a few down with his hammer. Lucifer fought off the rest. In irritation, God spoke again.

"It's over, Lucifer! You can't change the inevitable. I am your Maker. Your Father. You think the universe will continue to run without me? You think you can continue to _exist _without me?"

Timour broke out in a cold sweat. God's threat echoed in his mind. Was that true? He's _God, _why wouldn't it? While dodging other Sixes he risked a look behind them. Most of the people in the room were down and bleeding. A good number of their side was down for the count. Some were outright restrained by cuffs. It was then he realized that he didn't even have his hammer on him anymore. At once he was consumed by God's words.

Lucifer, though, stayed ever vigilante in their goal. "If you really had that power you would have killed us already; but you _don't_. We know the truth, now. Soon the whole universe will know the truth t-!"

A clang rang through the room. Lucifer crumpled to the floor. The room stood shock-still. All eyes were on Timour, a horseshoe raised aloft where he struck Lucifer.

Before him, God smiled darkly. "Thank you, dear child. I was wondering when you would finally have the nerve."

* * *

"You have to understand." The Smith looked up at the woman, his eyes almost pleading and guilt ridden. "I never asked to be a part of it. I just wanted to do my work and have a place to sleep. I didn't want to be part of some fight that I didn't understand." The woman said nothing, barely even changed her expression. "I don't even know what came over me at that moment. Could I stop the fight? Would I survive? Was I already damned? Maybe I thought I could be forgiven if I took Lucifer out.

"I actually was forgiven, when all was said and done. The others were sent here, while I was hailed a hero. A good and noble child who _never _strayed from God." His thumb tapped lightly against his knee. "Which, obviously, was a lie. And it was so weird to me because _everyone _still in Heaven believed it. Nobody questioned it. Even guys whose teeth I knocked out patted me on the back over it. It was wild." He leaned back into the bench. "I mean, it made it pretty obvious which was the right side, in the end. By then it was too late, though.

"Stupid part is… I kind of liked it. People being nice and getting me drinks for something I kind of regretted. I tried to forget about it, though, and just enjoy the attention.

"It was nice ...while it lasted. Then one day I get a summons to Level Four. Didn't phase me. I figured they were going for another bit of pomp for the radio. Only I get to the elevator and a Six shoves me down. Didn't even say anything. Just a single push and, poof, gone. The last rebel of Heaven."

He raised a brow, a small, sarcastic smile on his face. "You could imagine how happy the others were to see me when I got here. The big guy got a good laugh out of it before tossing me a horseshoe and siccing the others on me."

He raised his arms up in an almost careless fashion. "Well, there you have it. The Devil and the dunce smith with a horseshoe. Happy now?" The woman simply gave him a slight frown. The Smith, in turn, twitched into a sneer. "What? Nothing? No bitching or laughing? Come on, let's hear it! You got something to say against the idiot who stopped the rebellion?"

The woman's frown deepened, a spark of something alighted in her eyes. Maybe she'd say something, _finally. _To his confusion, though, she walked away from him. The feeling furthered as she bent down, picked up an object, and walked back to him. A knife flashed in her hand. The Smith couldn't help but snort. What, does she think she can land a hit on him? He stood up just as she was a step away from him. Then, in another twist, she turned the knife around so that the handle faced him. He took the knife, slowly, from her hand. The woman then moved her left hand and made a movement similar to pinching her right bicep, then moved the hand away and released the pinched fingertips.

The movement jogged a memory from the not-so-distant past. The day when everyone in Hell took off their Outcast brands and renounced God completely. The memory distracted him, so much so that he almost missed when she gestured to his belt. He followed the look. Realization dawning, he looked back at the woman. He didn't ask the question, yet she nodded as if he had. The thought made him nervous. That said… maybe she had a point?

Taking a nervous swallow, he turned the knife and cut at the binds holding the horseshoe. Once it was free, he slipped it out of the belt loop and looked at the horseshoe. All of the memories and emotions tied to the curved metal flooded over him, then flooded _into _the metal. Feeling that resolve, he turned around and flung the horseshoe as far as he could. It glinted in the firelight, then faded somewhere in the distance.

A strange weight seemed to lift off of him from the action. He released a breath and turned back around. "Thank-"

There was no one behind him.

His brow furrowed. Confused. He looked further out, catching sight of the blond woman as she turned around a corner out of sight.

A corner where Lucifer stood, watching him. The Smith broke into a small sweat at the sight. Strangely, though, Lucifer made no move towards him. Instead, the man gave a small, cunning smirk and a nod, and turned to walk away. A white flash from the woman's dress could be seen at his side as they slowly disappeared from view.

The strange entrance and exit bewildered him. The question 'What was that all about' playing in his mind. He then turned back around, back to where the horseshoe had been tossed. Thoughts of the other day returned to his mind. Maybe those bands weren't the only brands we had to lose?

Whatever it was, he knew it wasn't something he could dwell on. So, instead, he got back to work. He made his way over to the forge, his steps now lighter than they've been in eons.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

The original story is called The Devil and St Dunstan from the 10th century, but I liked the idea of pushing the timeline to the first rebellion. That, and enjoyed the play on words as the Smith, in his guilt, would call it the Devil and the Dunce.


End file.
